In the darkness Richelieu smiled.
"Jephté" proved to be a decided success. The opera-house was crowded, both Queen and Dauphin were present, and most of Versailles were gathered into the badly lighted and wretchedly aired building. Richelieu's party were found to be fairly congenial, and the Duke, who had exerted himself almost beyond his powers, during the drive, to banish from Deborah's thoughts the incident of the cabinet, now allowed d'Aiguillon to hold full sway over the conversation, and himself sat almost entirely silent during that part of the evening. How try to imagine the gradual trending of his thoughts? How surmise their final concentration? It is something that no mortal of inexperience has ever been able to conceive, no anthropologist capable of analyzing—that secret, stealthy working of the brain faculties round and round one point; how they approach it nearer and nearer, retreat a little, hesitate, advance again, till the point has suddenly been reached; the idea and the will are one; determination is born.
The party of six returned, after the opera, to Versailles, in one wide-seated coach. Arrived at the palace and Richelieu's apartment within it, supper was found awaiting them; and the evening progressed with all possible gayety. Later the Maréchal de Coigny escorted Mme. de Mailly home; and, at four o'clock in the morning, long before the December dawn, Deborah Travis slept.
His Grâce de Richelieu was not so happy. Before his salon was cleared of the remains of supper and set to rights again, Grachet, his valet, had put him gently to bed, all pomaded, perfumed, silken-gowned, and capped. But the warming-pan had made the sheets too hot; and the champagne had more than usually heated his head. He turned and tossed and twisted like any mortal, the great Richelieu, for the two heavy hours which constituted his night; and it was during that time that the Determination was born. The idea and the will—the little bronze key and the desire to use it—had met. Crime, or the planning of crime, hovered there in the darkness over the heavy canopy. Satan, cloven-hoofed, laughing, reclined in a chair near his new friend. Richelieu fell gradually into a drowsy state. Strange whispers poured from his lips. Such a night he had not spent before, such would never spend again.
Morning came, finally. The Duke rose, with relief, at a little past six, and dressed by candle-light. Grachet wondered in sleepy silence as he prepared the chocolate at such an unheard-of hour, but came near to the unpardonable false step of an exclamation, when his master, toying idly with an egg, said, suddenly: "Grachet, go and ask Mouthier—his Majesty's chef—to come to me at once if he can. Rouse him, if he is not yet up."
When the man had left the room upon his unprecedented errand, Richelieu flung down his napkin and sprang to his feet. To have seen his face and heard his hoarse breathing would have been to judge him physically in pain. He walked in great strides up and down the apartment, refusing to struggle against his impulses, crushing out the final prompting of a long-weakened Other Nature. Presently he came to a halt before his chamber door, just as Grachet re-entered, bringing with him an imposing personage, somewhat dishevelled as to wig, but attired in a very neat black suit, with waistcoat of cherry silk, and the blue ribbon of his order elaborately arranged thereon.
"M. Mouthier, my lord."
"Good-morning, Mouthier—good-morning—good-morning," observed the Duke, staring hard at the new-comer, and monotonously repeating his words. "You're early," he added, at length.
"Your Grace, in one hour, in company with my staff, I depart for Choisy," responded the great cook, with reproachful respect and something of the manner of a world-famed general announcing the opening move of the campaign to his sovereign.
"Ah—Choisy." Richelieu smiled as he drew out his words.